


Crime Pays, Coffee Doesn't

by passeridae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Accountant!Gabriel, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Mob, Crack Treated Seriously, Ex-Mob!Jack, M/M, Mild Mob Violence, Romantic Comedy, Sexualised Accounting Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passeridae/pseuds/passeridae
Summary: Gabriel's a tired accountant who really needs some caffeine, Jack works for a cafe that's actually a front. It's not love at first sight, but it's something like that.In all Jack’s seven years working here, not one person has actually come in and ordered. Until today.The man blinks up blearily at him, clearly exhausted. “Coffee?” he asks again, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petitecreame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitecreame/gifts).



> A gift for gem, who is a gift <3
> 
> Massive thank you to Slynx, who helped me with all the accounting jokes. I couldn't have written this without you!

To put it bluntly, the cafe is a front.

Jack’s been working there all of seven years now, upstairs, sitting behind the counter in his chair and glaring at anyone who comes in. He does the bookings, keeps out the people who need to be kept out, lets in the people who need to be let in. It’s easy work, most of the time. He gets to sit, and read his paper and his novels, and drink the shitty percolator coffee they have. His back aches most mornings, scars pull taut — he’s not as young as he used to be. After his kneecap got shattered in an op gone bad, really he’s lucky to have this job at all. But the people who own the joint are kind, kinder than they should be, considering what they do.

But that was getting away from the point. In all Jack’s seven years working here, not one person has actually come in and ordered. Until today.

The man blinks up blearily at him, clearly exhausted. “Coffee?” he asks again, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

The thing about this cafe is that it’s specifically designed to be as unappealing and unfriendly as possible. It’s a tiny space, about the size of a single car garage, all concrete and frosted glass. It’s called the Icebox, because Mei has a twisted sense of humour when she gets going. From the outside, there’s nothing to indicate it’s a cafe at all. It’s not on a main road, or near a station or stop. It doesn’t appear on any map. Jack has had one or two people open the door, see him and the unwelcoming space, and immediately leave.

“I’ll have to make a new pot.” Jack doesn’t know what possesses him to say it, rather than telling the man to fuck off. “And we’re out of sugar and milk.”

“Yeah, sure, just coffee. How much?”

The man hands over ten dollars without batting an eye, and Jack somehow feels like he’s made a grave mistake.

* * *

He has to go downstairs to find a mug.

Somehow, Moira has filled most of them with blood in various stages of congealing, which is… certainly something. Moira can clean those up, he decides, he doesn’t want to know. Eventually, he finds a mug that he’s fairly certain is blood-free stacked on Baptiste’s desk. He scrubs it out in the kitchenette sink, just in case. 

Mei, who’s finishing up for the night, looks at him oddly as he dries the mug on their non-biohazard teatowel. “Your usual mug broke?” Jack tries not to freeze like a cornered animal at her voice, teatowel squeaking loudly in the silence. He’s pretty sure the mug is dry now, but he wants to do something with his hands.

“I, uh, I have a customer?”

Mei looks about as shocked as he feels, which is heartening, honestly.

He still grumbles about the blood in the cups all the way back up the stairs, knee protesting all the while.

His customer is still there when he reappears, standing at the counter with a pile of paper and a slim laptop on the counter in front of him. He’s mumbling to himself as he looks between them, making notes in the margins of his paper pile. Jack pours from the newly-percolated pot, and plonks the mug down with about as much grace as he can muster, which is none. The man barely seems to notice, reaching blindly for the coffee and swallowing it in one, large gulp.

Jack refills the mug.

The customer stays for half an hour, precisely, before packing up and leaving at 07:00. Jack doesn’t know what to make of it.

He keeps the mug upstairs, and tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want it to be filled with blood like the rest of them. It’s not entirely a lie.

* * *

The next morning, the man returns. 

Jack looks up from his paper as the door opens, and definitely does not feel a bolt of excitement to see the same man as yesterday walking in. He’s wearing a different suit today — a solid navy compared to yesterday’s pinstripes. White shirt, paisley tie. His glasses are bulky and hide his eyes, but not the depth of the bags underneath them. Jack’s pretty sure he hasn’t brushed his hair.

“Coffee?” his customer asks again, and Jack is helpless but to fetch the mug (his mug, Jack’s traitorous brain corrects) and slide it across the counter. Once again, the man spends half an hour staring at his laptop and a pile of papers, mumbling to himself. Jack pretends to read his morning paper, but in reality just spends most of the time staring at him. At 07:00, on the dot, the customer packs his things, and as he’s turning to leave asks, “what time do you open?”

“I get here at six,” Jack tells him. He’s trying not to look too outwardly confused, and is worried that he’s failing at it. The man nods, and makes a considering noise, then leaves.

The next morning, he arrives at 06:00.

Then the next morning, and the one after. Every weekday, he arrives at 06:00, orders coffee, and spends a whole hour standing there, poring over his work. Jack doesn’t know what to make of it. Once he has his coffee in hand, he seems to tune out the rest of the world entirely. At one stage, Jack openly makes an appointment for a kidney transplant while he’s there, and he doesn’t so much as bat an eye. Doesn’t seem to notice that the rag Jack uses to wash the counter has old bloodstains on it, that there’s never a single other customer. He just stands, and works, and drinks his overpriced coffee. 

After a few weeks, Jack buys him a stool. The look of pleasure on his face when he sees it has Jack smiling for the rest of the day. Mei and Baptiste tease him incessantly about it, but he can’t even bring himself to care.

* * *

Two months in, Jack learns that his customer’s name is Gabriel. 

He learns this when Gabriel asks if they serve breakfast.

“I can make breakfast, sure,” he says without thinking, because apparently Gabriel fries his brain clean out of his head. It’s only after this that he remembers they don’t actually have a kitchen, or a menu, or much of anything, really? 

Gabriel leans back from his position at the counter, pushes his glasses to the top of his head, and rubs at his eyes. Without the frames in the way, Jack can see that his eyes are a truly lovely shade of brown. His glasses sweep his hair back from his face in a way that makes Jack’s heart patter in his chest.

He escapes downstairs. 

“I said I’d make breakfast,” he blurts out as Baptiste finishes suturing up their latest patient’s bleeding leg. Baptiste is kind enough not to laugh at him with other people in the room, though Jack can see it’s a struggle to keep his face straight. Their patient, a Greek man who’s been to see them several times now for various injuries, takes this as an invitation and starts telling the two of them about how he won his wife over with his cooking skills. Jack goes bright red even as he sputters and flees back across the room to the kitchenette. 

Thankfully, he finds eggs in the fridge, after checking they hadn’t yet been inoculated with anything for science, and bread in one of the cupboards. No mould. Okay. Okay, he can do this. They have a little hot plate and pan for when Mei makes her meals onsite, and he carefully cuts the centres out of the slices of bread with a fresh sterile scalpel, so he can fry the eggs in them. He doesn’t have a spatula, so flips the eggs by hand and mentally apologises to Gabriel as he does. When they’re done, he puts them on a plate, and tries not to fuss about the placement as he carries them up the stairs.

It’s only once he’s presented the plate to Gabriel that he realises he completely forgot cutlery in the rush. 

Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice, just picks up the bread and eats it one handed while glaring at something on his computer screen.

He does ask for a napkin afterwards, though.

Jack gives him the handkerchief from his pocket.

Gabriel makes a pleased noise at the worn fabric, and tucks it away once he’s done using it. He wears it as a pocket square later that week, and Jack can barely speak the entire time he’s there.

* * *

Before they know it, Gabriel becomes a fixture.

He’s there every morning, for exactly one hour, poring over his work and drinking Jack’s terrible coffee without flinching. Every Friday, and only on Friday, he asks for breakfast. Jack finds himself looking up breakfast recipes and making lists of ingredients to buy in preparation. He does egg in a hole again, this time with sour cream, sriracha, and avocado. Gabriel makes a bit of a face at that one, and Jack responds with a shakshouka recipe that one of their patients had given him. Then a breakfast of eggs, labneh, hommous, and falafel, which Gabriel can scoop into flatbread. Gabriel seems to prefer food he can eat with his hands. No matter what Jack makes, Gabriel assures him it’s good, and leaves with a contented look on his face.

Everyone who comes through for their actual business assumes that Gabriel is their accountant, which is why he’s always there, poring over numbers. He does seem to be an accountant, but he’s definitely not theirs in any sense of the word. Jack can’t make himself dispute the statement, though, given that Gabriel is _right there._ What if it gives him the wrong idea? Or offends him? Instead, he just makes vague choked noises and pulls out his appointment book to make his clients change the subject. 

The two of them don’t talk, really, other than to ask for coffee, or refills, or to pay. One morning, however, Gabriel makes a surprised noise that catches Jack’s attention. Gabriel mumbles to himself a lot, but Jack has never heard this specific noise before. Not that he’s been closely listening to them, or anything like that. But Gabriel is here every morning, so he’s used to the noises having a specific flow, like background music. This is a break from it.

“Everything alright?” he asks from his chair. He’s been doing the crossword, but is stuck on “intractable, 8 letters, first letter C” so doesn’t mind the distraction overmuch. He’s actually thinking of refilling his coffee, and checking to see if Gabriel needs any more.

Gabriel makes a noise in response to Jack’s question that Jack can only describe as aggrieved, running his hand through his hair, mussing it. “The numbers don’t add up.” He takes his glasses off to pinch at the bridge of his nose, as warning sirens start to go off in Jack’s head.

“Well, mistakes do happen,” he says, trying to inject cheer into his voice as he reaches for the percolator.

“It’s too consistent for human error, and too random to be machine error either,” Gabriel grumbles, flipping several pages back and forth in quick succession. As Jack goes over to refill his coffee, he catches sight of the logo in the corner of the pages and pales. He knows this company. They’re a key corporation funneling money into the Mob.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Gabriel keeps grumbling. Jack bites at his lip, trying to decide whether to say anything more. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but. But Gabriel has been coming here pretty much every day for almost a year. He can’t just leave him to be killed for digging too deep. Jack takes a deep breath, grip tightening on the coffee pot. “Gabriel.” At this, Gabriel looks up, frowning fiercely. Jack barrels on, “you should leave those discrepancies alone.”

Gabriel’s scowl deepens, and he braces both of his forearms on the counter, over the pages. “What? I can’t do that, this is my job—”

Jack cuts him off, “No, Gabriel. Leave this alone.” 

Something in his tone makes Gabriel stop, mouth open, and tilt his chin up, considering. His eyes narrow, brightening as he shifts from scowling into something more calculating. He bites his lip, and Jack’s eyes catch on the motion.

“... Why?”

Well, this was the moment of truth, Jack supposed. He puts the coffee pot down, not wanting to be holding it in case Gabriel reacted badly. He hoped Gabriel didn’t react badly, shit. Running his freed hand down his face, he turns back to face Gabriel. No sugar coating this one. “Because, your company is involved with the Mob.”

Gabriel’s response to this statement is incredulous laughter. 

“Jack, we’re an accounting firm, we’re not that exciting.” He looks back at Jack, at Jack’s gravely serious expression. There’s a pregnant pause while Gabriel just stares at him, as if he expects Jack to start laughing any second. He doesn’t. Eventually, Gabriel swallows heavily. “You’re serious?” Jack nods. His heart is beating painfully in his chest.

Jack can only stand there as Gabriel mechanically packs his things, his coffee sitting, cooling in his cup. He mutters something about needing to go, and Jack nods, stiff. As the door closes behind him, Jack’s heart starts to ache, hollow in his chest.

* * *

Gabriel doesn’t come back the next day.

Nor the one after it.

Jack tries not to mope, and fails horribly.

He knows it’s bad when Moira comes up from the basement with a tumbler of whisky and thrusts it in his face, telling him, “this will improve your condition.”

Jack sniffs it, to make sure that it’s actually what he thinks he is, and asks, “Moira, it’s eleven in the morning…”

Moira just blinks at him, tilting her head like a bird, “I fail to see your point.” 

Ah, what the hell. He knocks back the whisky. Moira looks satisfied, vanishing back downstairs between blinks. Mei appears next, bringing freshly baked cookies from a nearby bakery, and putting them down next to Jack without a word, laying a hand on his shoulder as she does. She squeezes twice, then vanishes as well.

That evening, as he brings his mug downstairs to wash it before going home, Lucio is bopping around to music playing softly from his phone while he sets up the theatre for the evening. He takes one look at Jack’s face and his eyes widen. “Oh, you got it bad. Lemme make you a mix tape.”

A mix tape, as it turns out, is about four fingers of booze poured into one of the mugs stolen off Baptiste’s desk (blood free, thank god, Baptiste is truly a blessing), which is then topped up with coffee. Jack blinks at it when Lucio thrusts it towards him, aghast. But, well, he had taken the whisky from Moira earlier that day, so — in for a penny, in for a pound.

It tastes vile, unsurprisingly enough. But, as a distraction tactic goes, it’s very effective; Jack spends almost ten minutes doing nothing but trying to wash the taste out of his mouth.

Baptiste gets in soon after. He jokingly asks, “do you want a bandage for that?” before seeing how grave Jack’s face is and patting the massage bed that they used as an examination table next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Jack doesn’t, really, except that he does, and Bap has always been a good listener. By the time their first patient of the night arrives, Jack’s feeling hollowed out but better, somehow. 

Then he gets to hold a Yakuza member down while Baptiste uses a set of forceps to pull a gemstone, set in a ring, out of a fresh open wound. “This is going to sting,” Baptiste tells their patient cheerfully as he pulls the thing out, and their patient howls. 

* * *

Gabriel reappears on a Saturday, just as Jack is getting to work in the morning. 

Jack would be more worried about his convenient timing if he hadn’t noticed Gabriel coming out of the elevator leading up to the apartments above while he was busy unlocking the door. So that’s how he’d discovered the cafe in the first place, huh. Makes more sense than any of the ideas that Jack had come up with over the past year.

It’s a late start for Jack, almost 09:00, and Gabriel looks rested, clear headed, for the first time in Jack’s memory. He hesitates at the doorway, then follows Jack into the cafe and stands near his stool, fidgeting, while Jack puts on the percolator for his first pot of coffee of the day. The two mugs, Jack’s and Gabe’s, are still sitting next to it, nestled together.

Gabriel focuses on Jack, biting his lower lip once more. He’s fiddling with the untucked hem of his shirt. "I went over the numbers again. Then again last night. Over and over and I— Why did you say what you said?"

Jack is still incapable of using his brain around Gabriel, apparently, and opens his mouth. “I work for the mob. I mean, not actually. I don’t actually work for the mob. Uh—”

“You work for the mob?”

“No, um. I work for a surgery? A doctor’s surgery? Well, I don’t know if any of them are actually doctors, I didn’t ask.” God, he’s making such a mess of this. 

Gabriel looks intensely confused as he asks, “your boss works for the mob?” He’s progressed from fiddling with his shirt to rubbing at his forehead, looking pained. Jack can relate.

“Uh, kind of? Sometimes?” The percolator beeps cheerily at them, the pot of coffee finally complete. Jack takes the mug out and asks Gabriel, “coffee?” Gabriel nods, still rubbing at his face, and Jack pours for them both. The routine is calming — flipping over their cups, pouring, sliding Gabriel’s mug over to him as he cradles his own. Just the same as every weekday morning for the last year. 

With his coffee in his hands, Jack feels marginally more human. Nevertheless, he sips at it too quickly, then inevitably winces at the hot wash of liquid over his tongue. Gabriel sits at his stool, fiddling with his mug. Jack’s torn between being overjoyed he came back, and gutted that he’s the one who put that hurt expression on Gabriel’s face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this. Let me try again.”

* * *

They talk for hours. Saturday mornings are a quiet time, everyone still recovering from Friday night before, so there are no actual customers coming through the door to break their flow of chatter.

Jack tries to hedge around the truth for a bit, but gives up quickly enough. Now that Gabriel knows there’s a connection to the mob, there’s not really much that Jack can hide. He fiddles with his coffee as he talks, eyes averted. He’s not sure what Gabriel’s response will be, not sure if he can stand to see it. Not if it’s fear, or judgement. It’s better he doesn’t know.

“We patch up anyone,” he starts. “Doesn’t matter who they work for or what’s happened. A lot of the time, they don’t want to go to the hospital or can’t afford to for some reason, so they come to us instead. It’s either that or trying to stitch themselves up, which never goes that well.”

Here Jack breaks to take a sip of his drink, wetting his throat. Takes a deep breath. “And, well, some of those people work for the mob. So I know a bit about it, just from hearing them talk, you know. Enough to know that the business you work for is one of their companies, at least.” He tugs at a loose thread on one of his cuffs, worrying at the cotton. Well, it was all out in the open now. No takebacks. Fuck. There’s no coffee left in his mug when he goes to take another sip and he reaches for the percolator almost instinctively. 

Across from him, Gabriel sighs heavily, almost leaning back far enough to unbalance himself and fall off his stool. He rubs his hand roughly down his face, scrubbing at the skin. “God, I had no idea. I thought it was just someone trying to skim off the top for their own benefit or something not… not. Shit, I didn’t sign up for this.”

The relief that swamps Jack at Gabriel’s response, with its implicit acceptance of Jack’s real job, is almost enough to drown in. His smile is still weak, but it’s real as he tells Gabriel, “don’t think most people do, to be honest. It just kind of happens.” Jack gestures broadly at the Icebox around them. “Didn’t mean to wind up here, but here I am.”

Their eyes meet, just for a moment, as Gabriel tells him, “I’m glad you did.”

Jack curses his complexion, which has him blushing red and bright as a spring rose.

* * *

Their routines don’t actually change that much, in the face of this revelation. Gabriel still comes down every morning at 06:00, just as Jack’s opening up shop, though he often stays longer than the one hour he had allotted himself before. He’d quit his job, unable to stomach the work now he knew who he was doing it for. Unhappy at being lied to. Jack can’t say he’s complaining, he gets to spend more time with Gabriel, and turns out that the man is excellent company when he’s not stressed out of his mind. Funny, and sharp, acerbic as hell. He even manages to charm Moira, and Jack can count the people who’re capable of that on one hand — with room to spare.

The big change is in the evenings, when sometimes, if he’s feeling bold, Gabriel will invite Jack back up to his apartment for dinner. Or to watch a movie. Something casual, he promises, friendly.

It tends to wind up with them both tipsy on beer and full of Gabriel’s delicious cooking (seriously, how did he eat Jack’s breakfasts at the start without gagging?), flopping against each other on the sofa as they watch something on the television. Basketball games, sometimes — Gabriel followed the Lakers. The entirety of POSE, Canada’s Drag Race. Jack learns that Gabriel has an amazing eye for fashion. 

Some nights, they put a movie on, forget about it, and just… talk. Jack usually isn’t one to chat, preferring to take the tall, muscled, and silent role; but something in Gabriel brings his voice out. He finds himself telling Gabriel things even his closest friends don’t know, like his embarrassing desire to one day have a house with a white picket fence, and a dog, and all. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Gabriel informs Jack in response to this declaration, with the exaggerated seriousness that only drunks can muster. “But going down to the cafe, having coffee every morning, it was my ‘Me Time’. Best part of my day.” He makes air quotes at the words ‘me time’, a chagrined smile on his face. 

Jack grins back, feeling his ears heat yet again as his chest fills with aggressively fluttering starlings. “Is this the part where I tell you I’ll do you anytime, or?” Oh my god. He needs to stop talking before he says something even more stupid. Jack Francis Morrison, you know better than to— 

Gabriel laughs so hard he falls headlong off the couch, and Jack rushes to catch him before his head hits the floor. They’re both at least moderately drunk but he makes it. Just. He tries very, very hard not to think about how intimate the embrace is, how Gabriel’s hand feels gripping on to his shirt. 

He’s swallowing on a suddenly dry mouth, staring right into those beautiful brown eyes as they lean closer, breath mingling, lips just starting to brush in a dry sweep of skin... 

Someone kicks down Gabriel’s door.

Jack could whine at the unfairness of it all.

* * *

On the plus side, it’s clear that the assassin isn’t expecting a fight.

The downside is that this is definitely a fight. And not the sexy kind. 

Jack tries to will his boner away as he launches himself at the assassin, who jumps back and to the side with a curse. The assassin is dressed for the occasion — nondescript clothing, black balaclava, nitrile gloves. Jack would be impressed with their professionalism if he wasn’t currently in very real danger of dying.

The first step is to remove the gun that the assassin is holding from the equation. Then subdue them. No killing. He really doesn’t want to kill someone in front of Gabriel. It’s so, so hard to come back from homicide on a date. 

Jack feints to the right, then dives to the left and under the assassin’s guard. It’s a man, Jack notes as he grapples with them, leanly muscled. Not used to physical confrontations. A knee to the thigh, one hand on the assassin’s wrist as he shoves it to the side then yanks. The man yells, finger spasming on the trigger. 

The gun is silenced, but the crack of splintering plaster is loud even with the TV playing in the background. The bullet goes wide, though, slamming into the wall far from Gabriel — who’s still sitting, wide eyed, on the floor between the sofa and coffee table. Jack grabs the gun, now free of the assassin’s grasp, and shoves it across the room. He’s breathing fast, his brain running a mile a minute. Does Gabriel have zip ties? Probably not. A belt then, to restrain the would-be assassin until Jack can call someone to solve the problem for him. 

In his time away from this line of work, he’s gotten sloppy. He doesn’t know what gives him away, his loosening grip perhaps, or his unfocused eyes, but the assassin leverages his distraction to try to make a break for the gun.

He gets most of the way out of Jack’s grip before he manages to grab them again, this time slamming them to the floor with one hand in the back of their shirt and another tight against the balaclava. “No,” Jack growls, furious. “Stay. Still.” He punctuates each word by slamming the assassin’s head against the floorboards, can hear Gabriel whimper behind him. Shit. Too much. 

(Quieter, he hears Gabriel whisper, “fuck that’s hot.” and oh, okay, _nice._ Not too much at all, he can definitely work with that.)

All the jerking involved in smashing the assassin’s head against the floor causes the balaclava to come loose, and as Jack pulls it free he realises that he’s seen that hair before. His stomach drops. No. There’s no way it can be him, it doesn’t make sense. He’s just seeing familiarity where there isn’t any, that’s all it is. There’s no way the world would play such a cruel joke.

The assassin turns their head to the side to cuss him out, and oh. That. Hm. That’s Vincent alright. 

Jack’s brain refuses to compute this new information. All he can think to say at the revelation that the assassin apparently out to get Gabriel is, actually, his ex boyfriend is, “well. Shit.”

Vincent, half way through an expletive strong enough to curdle milk, suddenly squints, twisting his head further to try and peer up at whoever’s holding him down. “Jack?” he asks incredulously.

This can’t be happening.

Gabriel finally pops his head up from his position on the floor, his eyebrows pinched together in an adorable expression of confusion. His top two buttons are open on his shirt and he looks adorably rumpled and god, this was not the time for his boner to return with a vengeance _why._

“Jack?” Gabriel asks, looking between him and Vincent, no longer struggling but still pressed to the floor under him. “What’s… going on?”

* * *

Jack lets Vincent up from the floor with a promise not to reach for the gun again, then goes to collect the thing. He clicks the safety back on before releasing the magazine, which he tucks into his pocket, then racks the slide so the last bullet tinkles harmlessly to the floor. That done, he hands the gun back to Vincent with a nod. Vincent nods back, expression serious.

They stand like that, not moving, for an excruciating period of time.

Gabriel flops back on to the sofa, heaving a dramatic sigh as he lets his head hang over one of the arms. “We were having a moment before you showed up,” he informs Vincent, petulant. Jack thinks he may still be a bit drunk. Just a little.

He gropes around his brain, trying to think of something to say. “So,” he starts. “Thought you still lived back in Bloomington, when did you move here?” What the fuck, Jack, he just tried to kill your friend and you’re making small talk? He tries, valiantly, to ignore the humiliating flush he can feel crawling up his neck and making his fingertips tingle. 

God, this is so awkward.

Vincent’s face looks about as pained as Jack feels, but he gamely soldiers on with the smalltalk. “I don’t live here,” he says, rubbing the back of his head the same way he used to when he had to talk to Jack’s parents. “I was coming through on the way to another engagement and got called in for a quick job. In and out, they said.” Vincent makes an expansive gesture as if to say ‘and here we are’. Awkward silence falls again. 

Gabriel sighs again, louder this time. Jack can hear the sounds of him opening a beer bottle, loud in the silence. Possibly also loud for the sake of dramatics, he’s fairly sure that Gabe doesn’t actually need to put down the bottle opener with quite that much force. Gabriel sighs a third time before Jack hears the sounds of exaggerated swallowing. Fair enough. Jack kind of wants another drink himself at this stage.

Vincent’s still just standing there, expression shading towards spooked.

"Hey, Vince, what the fuck?" 

Vincent sighs, visibly deflating as he does. "22k. Thought it seemed overpriced, but wasn’t gonna turn it down. I’m just… gonna tell them he wasn’t home. I’m leaving tomorrow, so."

Gabriel pipes up from the sofa, “you could leave now.” 

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’ll... let you get back to your evening.” Vincent nods and, with a grimace, backs out the door. He even tries to close it, before remembering that he’d shot off the lock and wincing once more, then vanishing down the corridor. After a moment, they hear the lift ding.

* * *

As soon as the sounds of the lift doors closing fade, Gabriel is on him. Jack doesn’t even get a chance to try to apologise.

Instead, he lets out a muffled “ooft” as he’s suddenly encumbered with Gabriel’s weight as well as his own, arms full of the other man as he’s pushed back almost against the wall in his surprise. Gabriel’s glasses dig into his cheek and wow, his eyes are really, really pretty close up Jack’s hadn’t noticed.

“That was so hot, holy shit,” Gabriel gasps between kisses, pressing his lips to Jack’s over and over. No chaste brush of lips, he presses them close, hot and slick and demanding. Jack tastes beer and lime, can smell the warm amber undertones of Gabriel’s skin. Opens his mouth and lets Gabriel lick inside, whining low in his throat at the sensation of being so thoroughly taken.

Gabriel’s hands slide down his sides, over his hips, are quick to slip Jack’s already-rumpled shirt from his pants and press against the skin underneath. They’re cool from the chilled beer, and Jack shivers away from them, closer to Gabriel’s chest. He doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, settles for setting them tentatively on Gabriel’s hips.

Gabriel is relentless, hands running along Jack’s skin, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. His lips, softly insistent, coaxing Jack into deepening their kiss into something filthy. Jack’s cock, still hard in his jeans, gives a painful throb as he slowly rocks against Gabriel’s thigh, unable to stop. He’s going to come right here against the wall if he doesn’t do something soon, and he really, really doesn’t want to embarrass himself like that.

“I, uh. Bedroom?” he gasps out between kisses. Gabriel seems to approve of the idea, using his hands on the small of Jack’s back to walk them, still pressed together, across the living room. Their feet tangle a couple of times, almost tripping them up. Jack can feel Gabriel smiling against his mouth as they struggle. But they make it without any major mishaps, and soon enough Gabriel is pushing Jack down onto the bed.

He’s sure he’s a sight, shirt mostly unbuttoned, hair mussed, tenting his jeans like he’s a teenager again. Gabriel seems to appreciate the view, at least, if the greedy light in his eyes is anything to go by. He undoes his own shirt, making a show of it, letting every button pop one by one, before the shirt falls to the floor in a heap. Slowly removes his glasses, biting at his lower lip, running his other hand through his hair to tousle it. Then, the piece de resistance — he grabs at the bottom of his undershirt and tugs it over his head in a way that flexes every single muscle on his chest.

His chest, which is covered in the most exquisite tattoos that Jack has ever seen in his life. Holy _shit._ Jack can see a flock of ravens over one pectoral, flying over his shoulder, a photo-realistic skull on his side, a snake curling its way up his waist around to his back. Blooms of blousy flowers — roses perhaps, tying them all together.

Jack’s brain is melting out his ears, he’s sure of it. He’d not seen so much as a hint of them under Gabriel’s suits, he’d had no idea. Fuck. _Fuck._ He has to fumble with his pants as his cock gives an aggrieved jolt at the sight, needing to release some of the pressure before he goes insane. He lets out a truly pathetic noise as he succeeds, high pitched and almost canine, and Gabriel takes that as the invitation it is.

He’s on Jack once again, pushing Jack’s shirt off his shoulders and rucking up his undershirt just enough so he can grope at Jack’s pecs. He licks his lower lip as he gazes down the planes of Jack’s chest, grinds his own hips against Jack’s with a truly sinful movement of his abdomen. He’s clearly liking what he sees. “Fuck,” he murmurs and his voice is _wrecked._ “You’re such a goddamn asset that I’m gonna have to depreciate you just to get you on record.”

Jack makes a confused noise at that. He thinks it’s a compliment? Maybe? He’s not entirely sure. His confusion washes away as Gabriel leans down, sealing his mouth around one of Jack's nipples, pinching at the other, softly at first, then harder as Jack leans into the sensation and moans. 

Gabriel grinds against his thigh, panting, biting and sucking his way over Jack's chest to leave a trail of dark purple bruises. He toys briefly with one of the barbells that run through Jack's nipples, face pressed against Jack's skin, breath fanning over the damp spots left by his mouth on Jack's chest. When he speaks again, it vibrates right the way through Jack's chest. “God, Jack. Your asset-to-liability ratio is so skewed, I'll need to audit." He's just as incomprehensible as he was a moment ago, Jack soon realises. Thankfully he doesn't seem deterred by a lack of reaction from Jack as he barrels on, "now, let’s see how you’ve managed to procure such large assets in such a short period of time.”

With that, he returns to his torment, not even paying attention to Jack's cock as he continues to knead and bite and suck as his chest, over his decolletage, up his throat. Along Jack's jaw, and then he's kissing him again, deep and sensuous. Jack's brain can't keep up, too caught up in the sensations. He's lost track of the sounds he's making, but can feel the vibrations of them between their mouths, the way Gabriel grabs harder at him, pulls him closer still. 

Eventually, he relents to Jack's increasingly desperate squirming and pulls both their cocks from their pants, gripping them together in one hand to give them both a channel to fuck into. The sensation of Gabriel's cock pressed up against his is almost enough to send Jack over the edge by itself, but he hangs on by the skin of his teeth. He's not going to go off like a teen, he isn't. He doesn't have the refractory period to do that. He does his best to think of deeply unsexy things — cleaning the coffee machine, Moira's desk, the dishes in the sink back home. Gabriel, pulling back from their kiss, smiles, sweetly disarming. Like he knows what Jack's trying to do. 

Then he tightens his grip, and really puts his hips into it. 

Jack throws his head back, clutching at the sheets underneath him, tendons in his neck straining. Gabriel shivers, even as he keeps up the punishing pace he's set, the glide of their cocks becoming slicker and smoother as they both start to leak. 

As he gets closer to the edge, Gabriel starts to pepper Jack's face and chest with little kisses, more brushes of lips, really, muttering about how good he is, how good he feels. Jack would be embarrassed by the praise, if he had any space in his brain for anything other than the searing want that's threatening to consume him whole. 

Gabriel runs his tongue over Jack's ear, tracing the whorls, panting against the damp skin. "Jack. Oh, fuck, so good. Your net worth is priceless." 

He does something with his wrist that Jack could not explain with a gun to his head, but has him once more right on the brink of coming. All Jack can do is make a sound that's something in the realm of, "guh!" 

Gabriel pauses, breath hitching. "Actually yeah. You’re right. Gross worth is more accurate."

Then, he sweeps his thumb over the head of Jack's cock, and just like that Jack is coming hard enough to see stars. 

* * *

He doesn't even remember going to sleep, but next thing he knows he's waking up in Gabriel's bed with the sun shining through the blinds. The first thing his brain brings to his attention is that he really needs to piss. The second thing is that someone has taken off his pants while he slept because he distinctly remembers them being on last night. 

That thought, of course, leads to the recollection of last night hitting him harder than a hit and run, along with the realisation that Gabriel isn't in the bed with him. Nor in the room, for that matter. 

Jack's in the middle of the process of tearing apart the room to find his jeans when Gabriel walks back in, freshly showered and crunching on a piece of toast. "Oh good, you're up," he exclaims brightly. "Coffee's in the pot in the kitchen and there's bread in the fridge if you want toast." Jack turns to look at him sheepishly, putting the shirt he'd been about to throw on the floor back on the hanger he'd pulled it from. Gabriel takes another bite of his toast. "I don't suppose your illegal operation is looking for an accountant, by any chance?" 

Jack stays for breakfast. Gabriel starts working their books the next day.


	2. Omake: AITA Post

**AITA: Ruined Date By Fighting Ex-Boyfriend**  
User: Jack_Morrison_76

This guy, I'll call him Angel, has been coming to the shop I work at every day for a year now, and we've been dancing around each other for ages. we finally got to have our first date last week. We were at Angel's house, after dinner and drinks, so I was… let's say a bit tipsy. I was so nervous and wanting this to go well, I'd needed some liquid courage. And things were going really well, we'd had a good laugh and I'd got close and were just about to kiss,

So of course, that's when my ex, who I haven't spoken to for years, broke down the door and started waving a gun around. 

This ex, he was my childhood sweetheart, we'd dated since we were teens. Broke up in our twenties because our lives were going in different directions, and I wanted to move away from home. It was amicable, we kept each other as friends on social media but didn't really interact at all, you know? Needless to say I was surprised to see him in the city, not to mention breaking into an apartment with a gun. 

Anyway, my ex was there waving a gun around, and I want to protect Angel, so I tackle the ex to the ground. Basic stuff. We wrestle a while, both get pretty scuffed up. My ex's head hits the floor a couple of times, but nothing major. 

The problem came afterwards, where we stood around kind of doing the small talk thing for a while? I knew that Angel wasn’t into it — he was doing a lot of dramatic sighing, and drank a lot of beer while we chatted. But I couldn’t just kick my ex out the door immediately, that seemed rude.

He did leave fairly quickly, though it took Angel asking him to do so.

So, am I the asshole for not asking him to leave sooner?

tldr; date got awkward when the assassin who crashed it turned out to be my ex.

Edit 1: Also had an awkward boner throughout all this, ex might have felt it.  
Edit 2: Crush also had a boner.

* * *

> GimmeTheAss69: An attempted assassination wtf what does this boyfriend even do?   
>> Jack_Morrison_76: Accountant 

> v_for_hire: seriously jack?   
>> Jack_Morrison_76: Oh no.


End file.
